


All the Ages of the World, Alone

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gigolas Week, Longing, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, change one thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Change one thing. Elrond makes a sensible choice of elf for the Fellowship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Ages of the World, Alone

**Author's Note:**

> first attempt at an AU, so not very alternate.  
> title is from Arwen's promise to Aragorn 'I would rather share one lifetime with you than spend all the ages of the world alone.'

I am back. Autumn is nearly gone, and I am back. I have had my journey, my time away, my freedom – my punishment. I am back.

I go to the throne room, I kneel before the King. 

He raises his brow, and I speak,

“My lord King, I have returned as you bid me, as speedily as I could. I – I was delayed in Imladris. My lord Elrond wished me to stay to tell the news of the escape,” – there is a raised brow, and I correct myself – “of my loss of the prisoner Sméagol, to a great council of many races. For it seems this Sméagol was a carrier of one of the great rings of power – the One Ring.” 

I wait to see if he would hear more, and then recount what I have learned, what was decided at that council. 

“These were to be the companions – three halflings, friends of the ringbearer, Mithrandir, a Man of Gondor, the Lord Elrond’s son Elrohir and his foster-son, the Ranger Aragorn – and a Naugrim of Erebor,” I finish my tale. “My lord King, I – I hope I have done all as you would wish?”

He looks at me, and I feel myself craving some sign of approval, but,

“Save that you lost the prisoner, you have carried out a simple task in a satisfactory manner.” And he gestures a dismissal.

I go, heading for my chamber, wondering why I thought it would be any different. I have not been away so long as to change him or his feelings towards me. 

 

 

Over the winter, I am busy, training, exercising with my group, keeping prepared. There is talk of war, and coming from that council I can understand why. Apart from this, nothing seems different. I am an elf, all is as it has always been. 

I do not understand what I would have different.

 

 

As spring wears on, the orc attacks become more frequent, more vicious, more serious.

Many of our people are lost.

Each time my group makes it home safe, I wonder – I look to my King for praise. Each time, another is singled out.

Nothing changes.

 

 

We have, it seems, won this war. The orcs are fled.

That ring, that I heard so much talk of, is destroyed. I wonder how those nine companions feel. Woven together by such bonds, I wonder how they will find their ways home.

I think through them. The halflings – they will have each other still. The Man of Gondor – is dead. The Ranger – become King, married to his foster-sister. I suppose that means his foster-brother will become his brother. He will have a choice of homes, that Elrohir, that son of a loving father, brother to a loving brother – I was in Imladris long enough to see that.

Long enough to learn envy.

The Naugrim, the dwarf – I know nothing of. Why would I care? 

I remember his hair. Red as the leaves of a tree in autumn, many hued, rustling, changing shade in moving light.

I remember his voice. So deep, so strong. I – I would have liked to hear him sing.

I remember his love for his father, plain to see in his eyes as he listened while the old dwarf spoke.

I remember I will never see him again, and he would not know me if I did. 

And I wonder why I care?

 

 

An agreement is made, much of the Forest will be given to mortals, to the Galadhrim of Lorien. My lord King does not explain his reasons, and I know better than to ask.

I stay among my group. 

There are stars, there is wine, there is song, there is combing. 

What else could an elf ask for in this life?

I do not know.

 

 

The months pass. The years turn.

On and on my life continues.

I sing, I ride, I walk the Forest paths. 

I am part of my group. We drink wine, we dance – when my lord King is not by to rebuke me for my lack of sindar restraint – we hunt.

We comb.

 

 

Every night, I comb with my group. I have my hands in the hair of one elf, I have another’s hands in mine. We stroke ear-tips, we reverie together.

This is all the affection, the comfort I have ever known. 

Why then does something inside me cry out that it is no longer enough?

 

 

My group is sent to Dale. There are trades to be done, some are to stop at Esgaroth, some not.

I do not. I have some free time, we have each been given gold to spend. I walk through the market. I have nothing in mind, nothing I need, nothing I would buy, none to buy for, but it is pleasant. 

Suddenly, rounding a corner, I nearly walk into him.

I would know him anywhere.

That hair.

He – he does not know me. He sees merely an elf.

“Blasted long-legged, pointy-eared fool. Look where you are going,” he says.

That voice.

“I – I am sorry,” I say, then, I cannot stop myself, “Gimli, son of Gloin, - you do not remember me, but – I met you once, long ago, at the house of Elrond. I – I daresay you are tired of hearing it, but – I would offer you praise for your role in the destruction of the Ring. I – I – it does not matter,” I say, as I see no recognition in his eyes, and I turn away.

“No, I do remember. You are the son of the King of the Wood – Legolas? – So, even princes shop in Dale once more?”

I smile, my ear-tips burn and my heart leaps inside me that he knows my name, and somehow I manage a reply. He – he is as I remember him. Older, broader, more confident perhaps. But – that hair has not changed, that voice has not. We speak of – of nothing. Of Dale, of the weather, of – I know not. It is not long. 

“Da, da, you said you would buy me a cake – I have been good, da, please?” the child comes running up to him, and is swept up into his arms. Immediately, he is engrossed in the story of what the little one has been up to, and what size cake he promised to buy – as a father should be, I suppose. Some fathers. I am hardly in a position to know these things.

I take my leave, I am not of interest. I watch him go, the child still on his shoulder chattering away. They join one who I suppose is his wife, she leans into him, and I stand and watch as they talk to the child, speaking their love for each other only with their eyes.

The town holds no more interest for me. I return to the inn, I lie on my bed, I ache and I still do not know for what. 

I do not wish for the comfort of combing this night.

 

 

In the morning, I go back to the market, I have still gold to spend. I remember I saw a toymaker’s stall. I stand and look. I have no idea what a child would like. All these things are beautiful. I – I do not know much about elflings, let alone little dwarves. I suppose I should ask the stallholder – he seems pleasant – but – but then it would not be from me.

In the end I choose a wooden horse. It is beautiful. At least, I think it is, skilfully carved, jointed to move, the grain of the wood following the flow of a horse’s hide. The stallholder wraps it for me, and I suspect I have paid more than it is worth – but what use have I for gold in my Forest?

Now – now I have but to find the child. Or, I suppose, its parents. Even I, naive as I am, suspect that to give a present to a child who knows me not, would not be wise. I steel myself to ask the stallholder – and am lucky. He does indeed know Gimli son of Gloin, he can direct me to the workshop he deals most with in Dale, and he recommends going at lunchtime, when I am most likely to find the child there also.

He is right. 

I stand in the door, and as I am about to try to weave my way through the crowded room, I see that hair, hear that voice coming towards me, the child on his shoulder once again.

I wait outside. 

He would walk past me with but a half-smile, as to one he suspects he should recognise, but does not. It hurts. 

I put out my hand to stop him,

“Please, by your leave, Gimli, son of Gloin, I – I was passing the toy stall after we spoke yesterday – and – I have none to buy for, but could not resist – may I give this ?” I realise, I have no idea whether the child is male or female, but – whichever, it cares not who I am when it sees the parcel.

“For me? oh Da, da – I can, can’t I?”

He scowls, and my heart sinks as he says,

“Bloody elven prince – we don’t need your charity.”

I bite my lip, I had not thought, 

“I – I did not – I would not insult you – I – I – what I said was the truth. I have no elfling, nor do I have friends with one – and yet – I wanted to buy this. I – in truth I think I bought it because I would have loved it once. But I am too old,” I am flushing now, in the face of his dislike, “or – or perhaps you would know someone who could use it.” I can feel tears pricking behind my eyes, I will not cry, what does it matter anyway – what was I hoping – I do not even know. I am still holding out the parcel as I flounder among the words I do not know how to say. He snorts, and turns to walk on, ignoring me, but – the child grabs the parcel as he does.

I rub my eyes with my hands, and walk away slowly, something inside me breaking.

I am but a few doors down the street, when I hear a running sound of feet behind me, and then,

“mister elf, mister elf,” I turn, and the child is there, bouncing, grinning up at me, “it’s the one I always looked at – thank you, mister elf, it’s wonderful, da says I can keep it if I say thank you. Thank you.” It stops for a moment, then, “da says only silly elves ride on horses though. Have you got a horse?”

I smile, “yes, but I – I am a very silly elf. Your da may well be right. I – I suppose you have not time to come and see my horse?” please, I think, please, let me have a little more time with your father. Just this once.

He has come up now,

“No,” he says, “come on, little one, I said to say thank you, not start talking. Fare you well, elf.” And he takes the child’s hand and leads it away. 

Well, I think, that was clear enough. Go home, Legolas. You are not wanted here. 

You do not even know what you want.

I watch until they are out of sight, storing every moment.

I go back to the inn.

 

 

We return to the Forest. 

The months pass. The years turn.

On and on my life continues.

I sing, I ride, I walk the Forest paths. 

I am part of my group. We drink wine, they dance –my lord King needs no longer rebuke me for my lack of sindar restraint – we hunt.

We comb.

It is not enough.

I do not know what is missing from my life.

I ache. 

I long for something. I do not know what.

 

On and on and on. 

One day into another.

One season to the next.

Year after year.

The ache inside me is always there. I do not know why, I do not know what I would have. 

Often I think of him. 

I wonder how long the little horse lasted.

One day, I realise how many years it has been. 

He will be dead now.

Now I know I will never see him again.

And I wonder how I can feel heartbreak for one I never knew. How can I grieve for something I cannot name, something I could never have?

**Author's Note:**

> I know dwarves only love once. I just think Gimli, being the practical dwarf he is, would find someone to love, whatever else happened in his life. Am guessing that if Elrohir was the elf, he would be much closer to Aragorn, and so Gimli would be more quiet and reserved all through the Quest. So might not end up as lord of Aglarond.


End file.
